By Any Means
by Maze-zen
Summary: Christine encounters an intruder, but it's someone she knows. Noncon scene.


**This story starts with a sexual noncon scene, but it wasn't what the story is about. It's about doing whatever you can for the one you love, no matter how it repulses you.**

* * *

Her bedroom was freezing when she entered it that evening; the balcony doors were left open, letting the harsh wind and rain of the wet winter evening into her otherwise warm sanctuary. The gaslamps were all extinguished, making her path through the room dark as she strode over to shut the doors.

She wrapped her arms around her body in an attempt to keep the cold from affecting her; she had been heading to bed and was only wearing her nightgown and dressing gown over her thin chemise, but she wouldn't get any sleep now before the room was back to a pleasant temperature.

Not wanting to disturb her maid who she'd let retire for the night, she hurried to the fireplace to light a fire that would quickly heat the room. But she stopped short when she noticed a shape in the shadows in the corner across from the balcony, near the door to the bathroom.

"Raoul," she chuckled, "are you hiding?" Her husband was still a child in so many ways, always trying to make her laugh, but she hadn't expected him to surprise her by emerging from the dark; he knew how she still dreamed about the Phantom's hauntings. However, when the person didn't answer her, she realized that this couldn't be Raoul at all. He would never continue such a ruse after she'd exposed him.

Trying to stay calm, she backed away with a now strained smile, towards the door. There wasn't anyone in this wing of their house, except for her husband downstairs. But if she could just reach the door, she could escape long enough to find him.

Two meters from the door she turned and ran to pull open the door, but the moment her hand touched the handle, a hard body pushed against her and crushed her into the ingraved wood of the door. Her breath was pulled from her lungs by the impact, making her struggle to catch her breath, instead of spending precious moments fighting against her assailant.

Gloved fingers twisted into her hair and pulled her head back, far enough for her to see a black fedora; for a moment she gasped - instantly thinking that it was him - but she remembered that a fair share of men wore fedoras. Another gloved hand wandered to her front, the arm wrapping firmly around her, so she couldn't move her arms.

He leaned down to her ear and whispered: "Did you abandon your Angel?" The rough familiar leather of his mask grazed her ear and her blood ran cold; he'd truly returned. He must've felt her tense against him; from his throat sounded a deep, sinister chuckle. His voice was more rugged than she remembered - viscious and perhaps a little broken - his breathing a heavy presence around her, though she could only hear it, as the mask blocked for the airflow. But she could also feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back, pressing her further into the hard wood of the door.

The gloved fingers left her hair, dragging their way down over her face, slightly gripping her throat - the instrument he'd carefully tuned - before finding one of her ample breasts; he squeezed it - hard - and she cried out, mostly in surprise. He'd never touched her in such a way before, despite her constant fear of it, but things had changed, had they not? She'd been gone from him for half a year, now a married woman. Had the time apart driven him to such desperation that he would take her by any means necessary?

He pawed at her breasts, kneading them harshly, and tugging at her nipples through the thin layers of clothing she wore. She whimpered in his grip, unsure if she should fight or let him have his way with her - satisfy him enough that he would let her go.

However, her body decided for her when his hand drifted lower to remove the sash of her dressing gown, then parting it completely to expose her night gown. She was shocked into stillness by his brazen behavior, but when he began to slide his hand up her leg - the skirts of her night gown and chemise bunching on his arm until she felt the cold air between her legs - her instincts finally reacted.

She started to wriggle in his hold, kicking at his groin and his shins in hope to hit something sensitive; her screams were of full force with an endurance she'd learned from the man she now tried to escape once more. Hopefully, they would be loud enough for Raoul to hear.

Her physical efforts were wasted, meaningless compared to his natural strength, and she felt his taunting laugh against her back. His hand slid further up her leg, now past her knee, over her drawers towards the apex of her legs. He took his time, his breathing becoming harder against her ear, until he cupped her most private place. In an instant, her whole world seemed to only focus on it.

She pressed her thighs hard together to shut out any sensation, effectively trapping his hand between them, so she might have some leverage against him. But all it did was make him moan into her ear: such a shameless sound that sent cold shivers down her spine; the pit in her lower stomach deepened.

She chose another strategy to fight him; her body slackened completely, forcing him to hold her up right. He did so without seeming to worry about it, so it surprised him when she threw her head back, hitting his leather-clad chin and ear with the back of her head. He lost his hold around her waist.

She jumped at the chance to bolt and turned to run for the bathroom. He grabbed her hand before she could get very far, spinning her around to face him and crushing her front to his. Looking straight into her eyes, his free hand tore at her night gown, the material easily ripping from her body. The chemise quickly followed and soon she stood bare against him from the waist up.

His gaze swept over her quivering skin; the fire in his eyes seemed to burn her, and a salacious hum left him. Once more his gloved hand groped her, pulling her already elongated nipples and she cried in response, turning her face away from it, as though it would save her. She felt a daunting shape from his loins which left her no illusions of what he wanted from her, and despite her natural revulsion, she felt desire creep forth from the thought of his lust for her - to be wanted by him that much!

Without warning he picked her up and in a few short steps reached the bed; he threw her down on it, only giving her the blink of an eye to land before he pried off her drawers - her last defense. She held out her hands to keep him from her, but he easily grabbed them and forced his large, hard frame down onto her soft and fragile form.

He lifted her arms above her head and held her wrists tightly in one hand as he fumbled with his trousers with the other. "Oh God, please don't," she begged as she felt him free himself - icy and hard against her inner thighs - his hand attempting to blindly guide it to her opening. She held her breath in horror as he found what he was looking for.

Mercilessly, he rammed his unforgiving length into her, careless to her state of readiness, and she cried out, tears springing from her eyes. The intrusion was painful, yet pervertedly exquisite. She fought against the sensation of pleasure creeping in through the agony, cursing the darkness that lay within her; it was always what had drawn her to him.

His groan of triumph was thunderous in her ear; without pulling back, he thrusted a little harder into her - though there wasn't any space inside her that wasn't filled to the brink - asserting his ownership over her. The large hand not holding her wrists traveled from the place they were joined, over the contours of her body, groping her obscenely until it found its way around her throat, squeezing lightly, but enough to make her feel the strength in him - his power over her.

He began to pull out, dragging his stifling, rigid flesh over hers before abruptly plunging it back in. Her breath was forced from her lungs under his weight, his hand on her throat a constant reminder of the danger she was in; it reminded her to fight against her body's traitorous response which was now a consistently, delicious throbbing where he breeched her.

She felt her inner muscles contract around his length and hoped he wouldn't be able to feel it; barely had the thought reached her before he moaned above her. "Your body welcomes me. It knows that we belong together." She squeezed her eyes shut in a poor attempt to fight the truth of his words. She longed to free her wrists and hold her hands over her ears to drown him out, but his grip on them didn't relent; instead, he seemed to use them as an anchor as he moved faster into her.

"You're mine, Christine!" he growled between thrusts, exerting his power over her in body and soul. His hold on her throat tightened, the leather of his glove damaging the thin skin, and his thrusts became harder - frantic - losing the rhythm he'd established. His eyes appeared crazed as he pounded into her repeatedly. "You will always be mine!"

"Yes," she rasped with what little voice she had, in shame because it was true: she would always belong to him. The simple word seemed to fuel him; he roared into her face, then suddenly released her hands and throat, leaving her quivering core for a split second, to turn her over; she landed flat unto her stomach. She'd barely grasped what had happened before he entered her again, and the change in position caused him to slide deeper into her, so far that he hit the end of her; she cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. It was indescribable, utterly unbearable, but no matter how many tears fell from her eyes, a dark part of her hoped he wouldn't stop.

He gripped her braid, wrapping it around his hand until he only had to pull a little for it to hurt. He kept her tethered that way as he set a pace even more punishingly than before; his other hand crudely dragged over her curves as his shaft tore into her. His breathing was becoming laboured and she doubted he would last much longer.

Her own vulgar body screamed for a release, begging him to let her reach her crisis. If he'd reached down to touch the swollen pearl where her pleasure was centered, she knew that she would instantly shatter beneath him.

But he didn't. No, he was taking her for his gratification - his fulfilment - and still she reveled in it. She unwillingly felt her body slightly pushing back against his thrusts, and her lower half wriggled to catch some friction against the sheets beneath the aching apex of her thighs. Luckily, he didn't notice; he had lost all sense in the pleasure he took from her. His roaming hand firmly gripped the nearest breast while he pulled her hair so hard that she had to lift her head, straining upwards, to ease the pain.

She felt his crisis right before it happened - a swelling in the invading presence of him inside her - before he forcefully thrust one last time into her, shouting her name into the air as he emptied himself as far in as he could come. Then he grunted brutishly while his groin twitched against her bottom.

When he had finished, he released his hold on her, instead falling heavy against her back; his masked face buried in her hair and she heard him inhale intensely. His wool coat scratched uncomfortably at her skin - a disruption to the burning in her core that longed for satisfaction. She resisted squeezing her thighs together to release the pressure, knowing that it would catch her assailent's attention. The best she could hope for now was him leaving her. He wouldn't kill her, but what if he took her with him? He could drag her back into the catacombs - never letting her leave again - only using her voice and her body for his entertainment until she wasted away as a free bird in captivity.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the weight above her eased and the flaccid intrusion slipped out of her, leaving an emptiness behind. She was relieved, yet wary of him as he removed himself from the bed - the rustle of clothing the only sound to be heard. She shifted her head carefully to gauge his intentions, but it seemed he had none.

He'd tucked his limp member back in his trousers and straightened his clothing, even added his felt fedora, that had fallen off his head, to cover his masked face. His eyes met hers for a moment and she adverted her gaze. He walked to the door, gripping the handle to open, but halted for a moment. "I'm sorry you cannot ever be free," he whispered before slipping out of the door.

She wondered if she would see him again, if his need for her proved to be too great for him. Perhaps he would kidnap her from the safety and comfort of this house, leading her back into the grave he called home. A place she'd accepted to live until he unexpectively had let her go.

Closing her eyes, she slipped into the forbidden world where darkness ruled alongside music; where the occurrence this evening would be her daily duty as the living wife of the Phantom: the ruthless creature that was the center of her every nightmare, her every dream. He would take her every night as he had taken her moments ago, and as frightening as it had been, it had unleashed her desire in a way Raoul had never managed to.

The insistent throbbing, her attacker had created in her, still kept her body a prisoner and made her focus on little else. Her fingers had already found the little swollen pearl in her folds and were rubbing it intensely as she thought of the way he'd made her his: the way his hard, bruising length had driven into her - bringing her so close to the crescendo - only to cruelly end it before she had found her release.

It had been part of his punishment, she was sure, for betraying him by marrying another - for believing that he was truly letting her go when he clearly wasn't in his right mind. And the simple message in the news paper had been to lure her back into his grip; she hadn't gone back to bury her teacher, for she was certain there would be no body by the well. That's why he had come tonight, to remind her who she belonged to - to give her the chance to return to him on her own.

Her fingers traveled further down her slit where the evidence of his assault flooded from her. She shamefully soaked her fingers in the stickiness he'd left between her trembling thighs, rubbing it all over her needy sex - bathing her lusting bud in it - until she silently cried out in rapture.

No one could know how she'd taken pleasure from the forceful act, how she longed to follow him and beg him to fulfill her with his music and his passion.

She would stay here and should he return, she would take whatever justice his twisted mind saw fit.

* * *

Outside the bedroom, he removed the mask, taking a deep breath. Donning the offending article had given him a rare insight into the monster he'd fought to save Christine from; it was awful to watch the world from two holes in the leather cloth, and while Raoul had no sympathy for the Phantom who had deceived Christine, he did pity the boy who had been forced to cover his face from birth.

Raoul had given Christine everything, but none of it had been enough; she still dreamed of him, moaning in the dark, her hands unconsciously finding her wetness and rubbing against it through her nightgown. She would wake, sweaty, calling his name, claiming that she had suffered a nightmare when her flushed body betrayed her words.

She'd been humming for months without noticing the tunes from his Don Juan Triumphant, and if Raoul asked, she said with sadness in her eyes that she missed music in her life.

Raoul had taken up the violin again, his fingers still remembering the path across the fingerboard, but nothing had changed from when he was a child: he didn't have the innate talent for the instrument like her Pappa had - like he had.

He remembered seeing the words in the paper, written in bold letters: "Erik is dead". He'd thought they could move on, that she would go to his body by the well and understand that he was dead - that it was finally over. Instead, she had said it was a trick to get her back. And so he kept haunting them in every aspect of their marriage.

Raoul knew now that he wasn't enough for Christine. Only one man was, the Phantom who was gone, and still she pined for him.

There was only one way he could give her what she needed; he'd created a mask and dressed as he knew the Opera Ghost had; he'd acted viciously - taking the frustration and anger of the last few months - and raped her as he knew the Phantom would have done if he had gotten his way.

Raoul had hoped that she would break down and cry out for her husband's name, for him to rescue her. Instead, he had felt her body respond to his assault in a way she never had during their tender lovemaking. She'd moaned and cried with pleasure, despite his rough treatment of her.

He didn't doubt that she was aware of her attacker's real identity; the right clothes and a mask couldn't make up for the height difference between him and the Phantom, nor could he imitate the unnatural voice that had enchanted Christine. He wasn't as thin or cold either, though he had attempted to achieve the latter by standing in the open balcony doors for several minutes.

Raoul tried his best to please his wife, in spite of how this action had repelled him, and he knew he would do this again. He longed for her attention - her affections - and he would strive to get them by any means necessary. To be enough for her, even if she longed for someone else.

When he'd prepared to leave her bedroom, he'd hoped for a smile directed at him as a husband and not as the man he was dressed as, but he had been sorely disappointed. And barely had he closed the door before he heard her touching herself, finding satisfaction from his actions.

Raoul had been elated when they had fled the catacombs six months ago, certain that they were finally free of the Phantom's terror. Now, he knew that Christine would always belong to her Angel of Music.


End file.
